On torpid afternoons I share the listlessness of trees,
waiting for the quickened pulse of evening energies,
listening for circulating breeze beneath the eaves,
the counterpart of moon's slow ripples lapping at the leaves.
Streams of air and light converge in dreaming foliage;
branches move like arms of dancers roused from reverie,
meditative, synchronised with frequencies of stars,
the orbit of the earth, shy crickets singing in the grass.
Trees and women, like the sea, are subject to the moon,
mysterious, nycthemeral, more subtle than sun's martial arts,
its rhythms of an army on the march, its javelins and darts…